Mission Accomplished
by nymphetxamine
Summary: Steve and Bucky are back in the field. A mission goes wrong, and Steve's clinging to the threads of life. Rated T for character death.


_"Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky."_

Pity. One thing Steve Rogers had learned not to accept. Pity turned him to weakness, something he, as Captain America, could not embody. It didn't matter how quickly he fell apart or whether he could piece himself back together, Fury told him in a flurry of papers and shouts and slamming hands on desks. All that mattered was that nobody noticed. That he plastered on a brave face in front of the press. That he smiled, waved, let people capture him in photographs the same as he always had.

He was Captain America, and as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s influence spread to an international presence, so did the need for heroes.

But what good, asked Steve as he lay, was hero who couldn't save lives?

In his wake, he left a trail. A thick, black smog rose from the ground beneath his feet and suffocated him. Sometimes, it suffocated those around him. He could not count on both hands the lives he'd lost due to his sheer incompetence.

_"You can't save everyone, Capsicle."_

But Steve had never wanted to save everyone. He'd wanted to save the people who needed it. When people cried for heroes, he wanted to be there like a guardian angel. The threats grew as years passed, and HYDRA was not his only enemy. He learnt not to trust, forgot what compassion felt like. He'd never know how it felt to love, to be loved. He'd never again have his breath stolen from him or discover something amazing. He'd never see the sun as it rose on an early run, never watch a star fall. He'd never get the chance to listen to the songs he and Bucky grew up inhaling.

More importantly, he'd never know if Bucky rose from the ashes that he himself had only sunk into.

Cough.

"Steve..?" The sky was a foggy orange, fading into flamingo pinks and ocean blues. Above him rose a dark smog, the crackle of flames in his ear his last. None the less, Steve smiled a tiny smile.

"Hey, Buck.." Bucky was at his side, collapsing to the ground and fumbling for him, fingers invading his very private self. The mask obscured him, but his eyes spoke all of the words he could have needed.

All of the screaming no's.  
All of the please, don't take him's.  
_No, no, no, please. Not him. Not Steve._

Bucky's hands found a point of sharp pain, and Steve struggled with a desperate gasp, bruised back arching beneath the burning touch. "Shit, sorry. You're bleeding... Steve, you're-"

"I know, Buck. I know."

"...You'll be okay, just... Just look at me, alright? Look right at me. Focus. I called backup, they're sending them now. Just five minutes, Steve." Steve's never seen him look so afraid. Bucky's brow furrows like a valley, fingers shaking violently as they press into the wound. He's adding the red to the white and blue, and suddenly he wishes the American flag was not all three colours. The Captain's hand is atop his friend's, and their eyes lock. He's coughing, convulsing. Air avoids him like the plague, so Bucky pulls him upwards. With blonde hair frayed against his lap, Bucky glances up at the sky.

No helicopter in sight.

"Hey... You remember... You remember when we were kids? We used to play army all the time and you... I always died." The memory floods to them, and despite weak chuckles it couldn't be any less funny.

"That's because _you_ were trying to make it dramatic. This time's different, though. This time-"

"No, Buck. This is it."

A knot constricts the soldier's throat, choking him as though a snake has wound its way around his neck. It tightens with each passing second.

"If it helps, I'm glad it's for you."

"No, Steve, fuck, that doesn't help. That doesn't help at all. You're not leaving me, not now, not when I just got you back! We... We were gonna go to the movies after all this was over. See that thing about the dragons. C'mon, you can't stand me up. I've never been stood up before, Stevie, that was always _your_ thing."

"You could-" Steve coughs, "ask Nat. I'm sure she'd take you."

"You love that thing about the dragons."

"So does Nat. She wouldn't tell you that, though."

Though neither one dares mention it (given that now isn't quite the best time for teasing), they're both crying. Bucky leans down and their foreheads touch- he's seen this image before on many a night, swirling within the convex of his mind, and it feels just as he'd hoped it would- it feels safe, and it feels okay. Only, when he'd imagined it, he'd never included the mixture of their tears. All the same, Steve smiles, because this is the closest he'll get to the daydream that they shared. His blood paints Bucky's fingers a foul crimson that he'll never be able to scrub away, no matter how much soap he uses. How hot the water. How rough the sponge.

"...I was your mission, right?"

"You were my friend."

"Mission accomplished."

"Steve, no-"

Steve doesn't hear Bucky's pleading, nor his screams. He doesn't feel the fists against his chest or the kiss he's waited years for. He doesn't respond when a sudden blast of air whips at their cheeks.

Bucky doesn't stop breathing into him until he's forcefully pulled back by Nat; doesn't stop screaming until his throat's raw and his voice fails him. He cries that night, and nobody's there to wipe his tears because that was always Steve's job.

_"You're my friend."_

_"You're my mission."_

_"Then finish it... 'Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."_


End file.
